Fire and Shadows
by Casualis
Summary: Chapter 6 updated. Slash. Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that last through the Ages. GlorfindelErestor, GlorfindelEcthelion, ErestorLindir
1. Cold morning

Fire and Shadows  
  
Author: Casualis  
  
Email: Casualis2000yahoo.fr   
  
Website: www.thecrystal.cjb.net  
  
Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.  
  
Warnings: None  
  
Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that last through the Ages.   
  
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir   
  
Thanks: To DA for betareading. I do hope that I didn't drive you mad with my commas... ;-)  
  
Author's notes:

"There were besides three other counselors attendant on Elrond, one an Elf  
named Erestor, and two other kinsmen of Elrond, of that half-elvish folk  
whom the Elves named the children of Lúthien."

Return of the Shadow, Tolkien.

I didn't find this on my own. I thank Orchid Constyne for teaching me this interesting information. Yet, in this story, Erestor won't be from Luthien's line even if he will be Elrond's kinsman. I wasn't able to find him a likely family in the first Age. :-(

Anyway, I hope you will enjoy the story.

Additionnal author's notes:

Due to FF.net's policies concerning NC-17 stories, some parts of this stories won't be published on this site. I will tell you when incomplete parts will be published. You will find them on AFF.net or on my site, whose link is in my profile page.

**Book one**

****

**Chapter I: Cold morning  
**  
_Imladris, Third Age._  


  
His green eyes were glazed, fixing blindly the white wall in front of him. His unseeing pupils were dilated and no tension came to disturb the peace on the ageless face. The elf was sound asleep, walking in the far Elven dreamscape, where visions and images were said to be brighter. He did not move, his stretched arm crossing the bed where he was resting, his long-fingered hand closed into a fist on the ivory cover. His other arm was supporting his neck, as he had moved away from his pillow in the passing of the night. The hand clutching the cover seemed to be made of the purest alabaster, paler than the very sheets of the bed until his skin seemed to be opalescent, glowing in the semi-darkness of the room. Such paleness gave to him a deceitful appearance of frailty, which was enhanced by the sleeper's delicate features: a lofty brow emphasized by a spiritual nose; sharp and angular cheekbones; dark eyelashes so long that they seemed brazen; a finely-curved mouth whose full lips were a call to kisses.   
  
Long, wild and slightly tangled raven strands were sprayed on the cover and the mattress, making a dark contrast with the pure whiteness of the fabric and the marble appearance of his skin. The elf's lithe body was hidden beneath the heavy covers, but one could divine the grace of his limbs in the soft languishment of his posture. The emerald eyes were still staring blindly at the wall. The elf might have seemed awake if it was not for the unnatural slow rising of his chest according to his respiration.   
  
The silent shadow that cautiously crossed the room did not rouse him. With careful steps, the golden visitor reached the heavy wooden door and stopped briefly then, a hand resting on the doorknob. He glanced quickly toward the sleeping elf, taking in the peaceful picture. A fickle emotion passed in the beholder's blue eyes, but it soon disappeared. Slowly, he opened the door and slipped outside.   
  
A soft clang was the only sound produced by his departure and yet, it was enough to bring back the sleeping elf to awareness. His pupils focused quickly and he immediately closed his eyelids, trying to protect his sensitive eyes from the vivid morning light. Nevertheless, before he became completely aware of his surroundings, something struck his senses.   
  
Someone had come…  
  
And had left.  
  
He was alone in that bed, nonetheless the well-known scent of another still lingered in the room, tenuous and persistent, a painful reminder of the other's passage in those rooms. And suddenly, he knew what should have awoken him. The light rustling of heavy starched robes, the soft sound of Elven footsteps, or perhaps the door closing behind someone.  
  
With a blind hand, the dark-haired Elf brought back the covers that he had thrown away during the night before snuggling against the comfortable feather pillow. With a deep breathe that looked much like a restrained sigh, he tried to go back to sleep. He had no need to wake up early that day. He could sleep as long as he wished to. Today was a day without duties and chores.   
  
He had asked Elrond for a day of rest and his wish had been granted. He had known that his friend had given him a worried look and that having asked such a favour would have only confirmed some of the Half-Elf's suspicions, but he did not care. Today, it really felt too much to get up and get dressed; too much to go down and meet people; to smile and pretend.He preferred to remain there, in the sanctuary of what he had come to consider as his rooms and not theirs. There, he would not see him.   
  
He closed his eyes again, seeking the deep comfort of sleep, trying strongly not to think. He did not want to think. Nothing appealed to him more than the void and the emptiness of his mind. Not thinking was like a balm on his fevered soul. But sleep kept on eluding him as it had for years now. To obtainest, he had to drink a sleeping draught. He was not proud of himself. For him, seizing the small crystal bottle every night and pouring some drops of the bitter liquid in a glass of water was like a painful admission of his own weakness, of his own failure. But it was better thus. At least he was spared long nights spent waiting for Anor to rise in the sky, chasing the darkness away. Long nights whose only music had been the hypnotic, deep breathe of his sleeping mate lying next to him; of which he had spent thinking of an elusive past, of an inconsistent present and of an uncertain future.   
  
He could not sleep.   
  
With a sigh, he rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes, taking in the sight of the magnificent painting decorating the celiling just above his head. It was an image of Gondolin, but Gondolin as it was before its fall: an image of the hidden city as the raven-haired Elf would have liked to be able to remember it. Great white walls shining in Anor's light; high, proud towers dominating the landscape; huge stairs that seemedto coil up around the heart of the Elven refuge. Gondolin had been a city of light and space, seeming to hang in the air; ethereal and breathtaking.  
  
But whenever he thought of that place, he did not see its golden magnificence that had once mesmerized so many hearts. Instead of those bright images of his childhood, beneath his closed eyelids were displayed images of blood and violence; death and fire. For him, there was no comfort in the past. Gondolin had fallen, he had witnessed its end, and those images would haunt him forever.   
  
Without ceasing his silent contemplation of the beautiful image, he pushed the covers away, revealing thus a slender body concealed beneath large nightclothes, which consisted of a long nightshirt worn on a pair of leggings. He had stopped a while back to sleep naked in that bed. In their bed.   
  
His face was an impenetrable mask as he straightened himself slowly and sat on the bed; legs dangling from the edge of the large and high piece of furniture; feet barely touching the cold marble flagstones. A shiver ran the length of his spine as he felt the coldness of the room enveloping his frame. He turned his head, his long dark mane making like a heavy curtain around his emaciated face as he stared at the fireplace. The fire he had lit before going to sleep seemed to have died long ago, letting the cold seep inside the room. Without leaving the edge of the bed, his long hands resting in his lap, he let his gaze roam absently through the room.   
  
His emerald orbs did not seem to acknowledge the many pieces of furniture scattered in the large room that was richly decorated. On the walls hung paintings and tapestries woven and embroidered by the skilled hands of the Imladris' crafters. On the ground were lying some thick and warm rugs. The pieces of furniture were all from oak-wood, from the bed where he was sitting to the large shelves in a dark corner where forgotten scrolls and parchments were resting. His thoughtful eyes seemed to linger for a brief moment on a pile of clothes that had been negligently cast close to the door of the bathroom, but he gave no sign of acknowledgement, his features not giving away what he might be feeling. One might have wondered if the dark-haired elf was really aware of his surroundings as he kept on scanning blindly and dreamily at the room, as if trying to reassure himself of his loneliness.   
  
Then, his gaze fell almost casually on the empty, unwrinkled sheets next to where he had been lying. He stared for long, silent seconds at those unwilling testifiers to what he already knew.  
  
He had slept alone that night.   
  
But it did not really matter. It was not the first time this had happened and it was more than likely that it would not be the last. He had, for a while, ceased even to care. That bed that had been once place of much pleasure, joy, and contentment was now no more than a useful and comfortable piece of furniture. But he did not complain. He had learned not to mind.   
  
For long seconds, nothing moved in the room. Nothing could be heard save for the light blowing of the winter wind outside, knocking at the windows and wheezing through the tiny interstices of the joined flaps. The dark-haired elf was still like a perfect marble sculpture; his pupils slightly dilated; his eyes holding an infinite sadness and tiredness. At that moment he was far from any reality, lost in his thoughts; seeing and hearing people and events that he was not sure anymore had really taken place or if they were only mere products of his too vivid imagination.  
  
But the present called him back as a melodious whistle, apparently coming from the balcony, broke the heavy silence of those rooms. A gleam of awareness came back to his dull green eyes and, as he raised his eyes toward the closed window, a light smile ghosted for a brief moment on his full lips. He got up gracefully, displaying his tall, slender frame to the morning light and, with ethereal steps, he approached the window, quickly drawing in a fluid movement the light sheer curtains hanging from the wall before opening the panels, which turned on their hinges with a low grating sound.   
  
There, he was greeted by the cold morning breeze that smelled of cut grass and morning dew. Ignoring the freezing cold that seemed to take hold of his body, he went forward, an enigmatic smile floating on his lips as he stretched his hand in a fluid movement, waiting for his winged visitor to come to him. He did not wait too long as a little bird flew to his hand and stared at him with piercing; round eyes before letting out another whistle. With a tender hand, the ebony-haired Firstborn stroked the soft plumage of his little friend before gently murmuring, his voice low and harmonious, "Aewithen… Have you come to say goodbye?"   
  
As if understanding the question, the little bird let out another short, high-pitched whistle without ceasing to hopon the long fingers of the offered hand. The elf closed briefly his eyes, as if to acknowledge the answer of the small animal, before speaking again, "Then, mellonnen, I wish you a good and uneventful journey…"  
  
He then extended his hand toward the South, waiting for his little companion to take his flight. The small bird turned once more toward him, watching him with those round eyes and, with a last whistle, left the friendly hand, unfolding its wings to journey with its kin to the Southern lands, where the climate would be gentler for the winter.  
  
But the darkling Elf did not watch the slow disappearance of his winged companion as something else in the landscape caught his attention. In the distance, he could see riders leaving the central court of the Imladris' manor. He had no need to look twice to know that it was the morning patrol that went to check on the northern fence, as it was routine. He had no need to look twice to know that riding among them was a golden-haired elf on a powerful white stallion. He felt his heart tightening in his chest and he lowered his emerald gaze. As he did so, his eyes fell on the mithril ring adorning his finger and his nostrils flared as he stared, still and tense, at that deceitful token. Mechanically, he removed the piece of jewellery and read the names engraved in the precious metal. His fingers stroked lightly along the smooth surface before he turned his gaze toward the direction where the riders had disappeared. He knew the golden one wore the same ring on his right hand.  
  
Twin rings for bonded souls.  
  
But those rings carrying their intertwined names were made of the same lies that poisoned their lives.   
  
Emotionlessly, he watched the ring as he caressed the first name engraved on the ring. His name. Written in gracious Tengwar.  
  
Erestor…   
  
He unconsciously raised his gaze toward the top of the northern hill of Imladris as his fingers brushed lightly the name of his mate. Ten letters written in no less graceful letters than his...a name as his nemesis. Ten letters symbolizing his fears and his pains; his mistakes and his shattered illusions.   
  
Glorfindel…  
  
_TBC..._

__

**Elvish translations:**  
  
Aewithen: little bird  
Mellonnen: My friend


	2. Unspoken

**Fire and Shadows**

Author: Casualis

Email: Casualis2000yahoo.fr

Website: www.thecrystal.cjb.net

Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.

Warnings: None

Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that last through the Ages.

Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir

Thanks: To the wonderful DA for betareading.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Unspoken**

* * *

"So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,

Blue skies from pain.

Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?

A smile from a veil?

Do you think you can tell?

(...)

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,

Running over the same old ground.

What have we found? The same old fears."

_"Wish You Were Here", Pink Floyd_

* * *

The silence in the small office was only troubled by the furious scratching of a quill on paper, the pointed tip of the scribe's device restlessly assaulting the delicate surface of an unmarked parchment. The golden-haired Elf who sat at his desk bent towards his task with closed severe features, dipped the quill in the inkbottle resting dangerously on the edge of the piece of furniture, ignoring the threat of a fall that would soil the ground if an abrupt gesture were to happen. The quill quickly made the journey back from the inkbottle to the smooth parchment and the flaxen-haired being resumed his furious writing.

Concentration was clearly visible on the stern face as a deep frown marred the high and proud brow, while the blue orbs were almost hidden by the narrowed eyelids, and the sensual lips formed a straight line. The hand stopped brutally, suspending the movement of the long quill as the writer closed his eyes, as if seeking his words. Then, the quill dipped once more in the inkwell before returning to the paper to trace more graceful letters in swift and assured motions. Then the writer stilled all motions, his eyes unseeingly fixed on the wall opposite him as the tip of the quill rested on the parchment, unknowingly allowing the ink to form a growing stain on the parchment surface, ruining the work done.

The long fingers holding the quill suddenly squeezed the delicate long frame of the writing device before the Elf let it fall with a deep sigh of frustration. Reclining back into his chair, he stretched himself languidly as his long silky hair fell in a wild cascade down his back, shining in the bright light of the office. Casually, he pushed aside the quill, not caring if the ink might have soiled the precious wood of the desk, and seized the piece of paper, bringing it closer to his face. His graceful features contorted briefly as he quickly scanned his report. Wrinkling his nose in vivid displeasure, he crumpled the piece of paper with exasperated strength before sending it flying through the room, where it landed close to some others, a testimony to the most recent effort.

A sigh escaped Glorfindel's lips as he pushed back his chair not caring of the wooden feet grating on the marble ground. He stood up, flaunting his tall slender frame in the light. He would not succeed in writing this report now, as the sun shining brightly in the sky seemed to call to him tauntingly. He wanted to be outside in the fresh air among the trees, far from any apparent civilization. He glanced around, his eyes taking in the sight of the room he knew so well; the office he had been given when he had accepted Elrond's proposal to take charge of Imladris' defence many years ago. At that time he had had no idea it would mean spending more hours inside doing paperwork than outside among the soldiers.

He wanted to leave this room and never see it again. It seemed to him that every day he entered this room, the walls had narrowed, making it like a lightless enclosing cage. He knew each detail of that room, from the light crack running the length of one corner of the walls to the shadows of the shelves projected on the ground by the moonlight when he used to work late. This was his prison. A hopeless prison he had willingly accepted.

With noiseless steps, he approached the high windows that dominated the southern gardens, Anor's invisible fingers forming shimmering reflections in his luxurious golden mane. His eyes showed nothing of his emotions as he watched the few Elflings that were playing through the frozen flowers and the cut bushes, throwing light snowballs at each other before running to gather more of it where it had not melted down yet.

Turning on his heels, he made his decision and began to unbutton his sweltering robe with nimble fingers, letting the heavy fabric fall to the ground, revealing broad shoulders and a well built torso. Seizing a tunic, he put it on. He had had enough of this place. He needed to be outside in the open air, not caged inside like a domestic animal. He would write those reports about the need for new recruits later. For the moment, all that mattered was that he had to leave this.

But, just as he was finishing lacing his tunic, a decided knock resounded through the room. It took much of his willpower not to swear aloud his frustration. Nonetheless, his voice was as melodious as usual and showed nothing of his feelings as he invited the unwanted visitor to come in, "Aye?"

The door slowly and noiselessly turned on its hinges, revealing the smiling but still imposing presence of the Lord of Imladris. A smile mechanically reached the Seneschal's lips as he approached the Half-Elf while he closed the door behind. Quickly bowing, he formally greeted his Lord, "Elrond."

An unfathomable smile graced the Imladris' Lord's lips as he acknowledged the greeting and looked around him, taking in the sight of the forsaken papers on the desk on which a quill was drying. His sharp eyes also noticed the clothes the reborn Elf was wearing, guessing immediately that he had intercepted the Elf as he was about to leave. Not willing to interfere with any meeting, he commented, "I see you are leaving. If you wish, I can come back later…"

But both Elrond and Glorfindel were aware that no one would ever tell the Lord of Imladris to 'come back later'. Such an attitude would have been unbecoming and, as much as the Balrog slayer would have liked to tell Elrond never to come back to bother him, he only shook his head while beckoning the Half Elf to take a seat, "What can I do for you, Elrond?"

He watched how the Lord of Imladris sat cautiously on the armchair, making sure that he did not wrinkle his heavy, formal robes. He was surprised that the Half Elf had come to him to speak. Usually, it was he who sought Elrond when he needed an approval on a subject, generally on something concerning the defence of the Vale. It was not that they were in bad terms with each other. They were just not friends. Erestor was Elrond's kinsman, the reborn Elf recalled, and he had often wondered if he would have acquired that position if it were not for the friendship his mate shared with the Lord of the Vale. Lightly shifting in his chair, Glorfindel waited for the dark-haired elf to speak, a faint smile still ghosting his lips. But when Elrond spoke, the faint smile slipped just a bit and his smooth features hardened, "I would like to speak of Erestor."

Glorfindel made an effort to regain his composure swift as he could, but the slip did not go unnoticed by Elrond, though he did not give any sign he had noticed. Leaning a little more against the back of his armchair, as if willing to sink inside the comfortable piece of furniture, the golden-haired Elf replied, taking care to calm his defiance, "What of Erestor? Is he unwell? I left him this morning sleeping like a babe… Has anything happened?" He forced a bit of worry in his voice, trying to sound like as a concerned mate should.

But Elrond only shook his head, knowing full well that they were both aware of the sham. He was also fully aware that Glorfindel knew of his Lord's own awareness of Erestor's state of mind as well as Glorfindel. However…Glorfindel did not care. "Nay, he is well. At least, the last time I saw him, he was well…"

Glorfindel, who was staring openly at Elrond, his eyes unreadable, only raised a curious eyebrow. Seeing that the dark-haired Lord did not seem ready to tell him what he wanted really, he asked, trying not to sound impatient, "So… What is the problem with Erestor?"

Elrond seemed to notice the faint agitation in the other's voice as he answered in a firm voice that showed no deceit, "I have some worries about him."

Glorfindel did not speak, but his other eyebrow caught up with the first, betraying what could only appear as incredulity. He barely retained the sarcastic smile that came to his lips. The ever-vigilant Lord of Imladris was worried for Erestor? Though his mate was much older than the Half Elf, Elrond would never stop trying to 'mother' his kinsman. It had been so since he came back from Valinor and he supposed it had been the same before his returning. The idea never ceased to amuse him. Perhaps he should teach the Lord of Imladris that Erestor wasn't as defenceless as he might appear. Quite the contrary, indeed. Glorfindel almost laughed bitterly. But, he asked instead, "Do you have reasons for doing so?"

Remaining silent, Elrond played absently with the mithril ring that adorned his left hand, his veiled gaze fixed on a point behind the blond Elda. Silence remained over them for long seconds before the Half Elf's gray eyes fell back on Glofindel and he bluntly unveiled the facts, "Well, I have learned from one of the healers that he takes a sleeping draught at night. That is not worrying in itself, but I have noticed that he has become tired of late, rather irritable, and easily angered, which, of course, is not normal behaviour for him. Then yesterday, he asked me for a day of rest, which he has not done in centuries."

The Lore Master paused briefly, as he fastened intently his eyes onto Glorfindel's own blue gaze. The Balrog Slayer did not blink. He had heard well the underlying tone of accusation in the other's speech. He knew that Elrond thought him responsible for whatever afflicted Erestor. But Glorfindel did not care of what the Lord of Imladris thought. Whatever happened between his mate and himself by no means concerned the Peredhel Lord. He did not avert his gaze as Elrond concluded, "So, as his mate, I thought you should know what the matter is."

But only a cold and emotionless gaze met his accusation as the golden-haired Elf stared wordlessly at him, his hand mechanically caressing the edge of the armchair, lingering on the hard wood. Elrond felt a shudder run the length of his spine as he held the other's eyes. There was so much willpower in those bottomless orbs that it was frightening. The Elven Lord wondered briefly if it had been under that same gaze that the Balrog had yielded its right to live. But the strange expression shifted brutally with the blink of an eyelid and the odd feeling disappeared as Glorfindel bent towards him and replied in a voice that was cordial but cold, sounding almost offended, "Erestor is your friend, Elrond. I think you should ask him. It is not my place to give you the answers you seek." He paused then added, hoping that the Lord of Imladris would understand that he considered the conversation finished, "You will have to ask him. I am sorry."

Elrond felt that Glorfindel was not really sorry. He was almost sure that the Balrog Slayer even ignored the real sense of the word. He suppressed the sigh that came to his lips. But it mattered little indeed. He had known before coming that it would be useless to come and speak to him. His lips contorted into a thin line as he got up, barely looking at the Elf facing him. He announced matter-of-factly, his voice betraying his displeasure, "Then, I will have to ask Erestor."

The golden-haired warrior only nodded his agreement before replying, in an emotionless void, "I think you will have to, Elrond."

They wordlessly stared at each other intensively, tension palpable between them. Then, Elrond walked toward the door, his heavy robes rustling with each of his steps. Stopping at the door with a hand on the doorknob, he said without looking back at the blond Elf that had reclined back into the other armchair, "I wish you a good day, Glorfindel." Before the golden Elf had the opportunity to answer, Elrond had left, the door closing behind him as silently as it had when he had come in.

Glorfindel did not seem to react to the Lord of Imladris' departure. His eyes were vacant, fixed on the window through which he could see the blue sky. He absently brought his left hand to his mouth and lightly bit one of his knuckles. He hated such situations. He knew what Elrond's visit was for. A warning. No less, no more. The Half Elf had not said the words, but it was as if they had been uttered.

"Do not hurt Erestor."

If Elrond had spoken the words he had really wanted to say, he would have said that. And it infuriated Glorfindel. He did not speak a word, did not let out a growl, but his whole body was tense, taut like a bowstring. His teeth left a red mark on his pale skin and he watched unseeingly how his flesh turned back into its usual pale shade.

Sometimes, he wondered how they had come to such extremities, if what he had once shared with Erestor had only been a vivid and pleasant dream that had turned into a nightmare. Why did he feel as if he was guilty when he was not?

His hand clenched on the wood of the armchair. Erestor… Once upon a time, that name had meant the world to him. Now, it evoked in him feelings of deception and failure. And Elrond's visit was only a reminder that they could not keep up the façade they had built for much longer. With a weary hand, Glorfindel massaged the nape of his neck, sighing as he worked on the tense muscles of his shoulders.

He needed to think.

He rose and quickly crossed the room. Most of all, he needed to be outside.

TBC...


	3. Long Journey

**Fire and Shadows**

****

  
Author: Casualis  
  
Email: Casualis2000yahoo.fr   
  
Website: www.thecrystal.cjb.net  
  
Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.  
  
Warnings: None  
  
Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that last through the Ages.   
  
Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir   
  
Thanks: To the wonderful DA for betareading.   
  
AN:   
  
Nevrast was a mountainous coastal land on the northwestern bounds of Beleriand. There dwellt Turgon's people before they moved to Gondolin (Ondolinde) in the year 116 of the First Age.  
  
Erestor's lineage comes from my imagination. Nothing is told about this in the books save for his being Elrond's kinsman.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Long Journey**

* * *

_End August, year 116 of the First Age Beleriand, Half way between Ered Mithrin and Fen of Sereith_

_****_

__

The heavy carriage rolled on a stone in the path. A deep sigh escaped Earina's dried lips as the carriage suddenly oscillated; threatening to overthrow some of its contents. Stretching her arm beyond what she had thought possible, she grasped in her hand one of the few bars she could reach, not willing to fall from her place. With her other hand, she pushed back the damp strand of red hair that hampered her sight behind her ear and then caressed her abdomen lightly before stilling her long fingers on the growing bulge of her belly.  
  
She licked her lips instinctively, barely moistening them, and tried to straighten herself on the precarious surface. Glancing around her, she took in the sight of the many Elves walking silently on the sides of the cart where she was sitting and rising clouds of dust beneath their light feet. Behind her was an unending line of carts and she knew that if she had the courage to look forward, she would have seen that her carriage was following many other carts. Her thoughtful eyes fell back on the walking Elves; her heart tightening in pity for them as she noticed their exhausted features.  
  
Horses had been requisitioned for pulling the carriages therefore all of them had to walk: male, female, and children alike. Being pregnant, she had had the chance to be placed in one of the carts carrying the priceless treasures of the great library of Nevrast. But she had not been allowed to have her son at her side. She was alone in that uncomfortable cart; her only company the heavy cases protecting the books. But even if she had barely the room to sit and the threat of falling was present every time the road became a little bit rough, she did not complain. She could feel the edges of a wooden trunk in her back, biting her flesh whenever she forgot to hold herself straight. But it did not really matter. At least, she didn't have to walk.  
  
She let out a sigh as she retreated in her mind to escape the harshness of this unending journey. Once upon a time, she would have travelled in luxurious comfort; her carriage filled with velvet pillows and silky draper, herself surrounded by considerate maids. But those times were long past and she had learnt not to dwell on memories. Yet this journey recalled so many others spent in laughter and in good company. Once upon a time she had belonged to royalty. In her veins flowed the blood of Finwe. Many years ago she had been called Minuial for it was said her beauty challenged even the splendour of dawn. She had been the pride of her parents and the joy of her people. Many had predicted that one day an Elven Lord would come and ask for her hand. Events had proved them right. His name had been Analto, a distant relative from the North. But what no one expected was that she would refuse; defying the wish of her family and facing the wrath of her father. In place of the road of duty, she had chosen to tread the path of her heart. In the secret depths of the dark night with Ithil's silver light as the only witness, she had bound herself to the one she had chosen, uncaring of his rank as a simple soldier. They had fled together and their life had been joyous and happy.  
  
But even if she didn't regret her choices, sometimes she was filled with melancholy at the thoughts of her previous life; of her parents whom she had loved dearly; of people she would never seen again.  
  
Earina shook her head. Such contemplation was fruitless and she tried to straighten herself before renouncing to do so. The air was so heavy... She had to force deep and long inspirations of thick air. Yet it seemed to her she could not breathe and was going to choke. She would have liked to drink some cold and refreshing water. But she knew she could not ask for the convoy to halt. So she raised her eyes to the sky; her gaze scanning the trail of heavy dark clouds that had followed them for more than three days. Rain was yet to come and it was as if the air grew more suffocating with each passing hour. If only it would rain... She leaned against the trunk, grimacing as a sudden cramp pulled at the small of her back and she wiped the perspiration that was collecting at the edge of her delicate brow with a trembling hand. Afterwards, she rested her head on a box covered with a thick fabric and tried to relax and take some rest.  
  
It seemed to her this journey would never end. How much time before they saw the white city of Gondolin; this hidden refuge built by Turgon and where they had to go to? She recalled silently that they had set camp yesterday in the path of Ered Wethrin, in the small pass where the Eithel Sirion was flowing through; a small stream that would grow, take strength from the mountains and become the furious gush they had precariously crossed some hours ago. She reckoned the days in her tired mind and tried to determine if they could hope to reach the Fen of Serech before the night. If they did, they might be at the doors of Ondolindë in the morrow.  
  
But Earina was not sure. It was so difficult simply to breathe, so thinking appeared nearly as impossible. She knew that journey would not be an easy one; yet she had never thought it would be so challenging. She would have liked to wait for the baby to be born before leaving Nevrast but she was well aware she would not have been able to manage on her own in the vast deserted city; even with her son with her.  
  
Perhaps if Alcarnarmo had been there...  
  
A deep pain reawakened in her heart as she thought of her departed husband and she willed herself to push the memory aside; instinctively resuming the tender caress on her stomach; feeling her daughter moving within her as if trying to give her the so needed comfort. Her daughter, who would never know her father. Earina shook her head, not caring of her hair falling in wild locks in her face; trying to get rid of those dark thoughts. She had to be strong for her children and not to cede to the vivid call of memories. Her son needed her and the child that would come soon would require her whole attention.  
  
Interrupting her train of thoughts, a thunderbolt stripped the sky; catching her attention. She once more raised her gaze hopefully. Would it rain? She could only hope so as she didn't think she could bear more of the invading heat. As an answer to her wordless prayer a drop of water fell on her fevered skin; followed by another then another. Earina closed her eyes in a fervent thank you. She could hear in the murmurs running through the walking Elves that they were as thankful as she was for the respite. Leaning a little bit more against the trunk; she let herself be carried; her eyes closed, her body bathed in the relieving freshness.  
  
"Naneth?"  
  
The well-known voice pushed her to open her eyes. A tender loving smile spread on her features as she gazed lovingly at the face of her beloved son who had just jumped from the ground to her side. She whispered softly; her voice carried away by the breeze that had just arisen, "Ion-nin..."  
  
A brief flicker of worry seemed to pass in her son's emerald eyes. Those eyes...The only thing he had taken from her. Bottomless shining green orbs that seemed to pierce through whomever they were looking at. Magnificent eyes that mesmerized many, seeming too huge for the youth's narrow face. He was openly staring at her with so much love she suddenly felt like crying. Save for those piercing eyes, her son was the living portrait of his father: Dark strands on pale skin. His body still held the roundness of youth, yet hinted the he would be as tall and slender as Alcarnarmo had been. "Naneth, I have brought you another cloak..."  
  
She stared blindly at the piece of cloth he stretched toward her; not fully realizing she was offered his own cloak. When she took notice of it, she vehemently protested; refusing to deprive her son from the only thing that could protect him from the rain. But a soft and melodious laugh was the only answer to her worries, "Nay, Naneth... I assure you I am well."  
  
And it was true. His eyes were shining in the semi darkness hovering over them. With his hair plastered to his face, his clothes clinging to his lithe body; he reminded her of a very wet dog. But he had never seemed more alive since Alcarnarmo's death.  
  
With a smile, she silently took the garment; relishing in the satisfaction gleaming in her son's eyes. She closed her eyes in pleasure as he kissed her brow softly before preparing himself to jump from the cart. Urgently, she called him, "Erestor?"  
  
Emerald eyes locked with emerald eyes as he stopped his move. Her words were barely more than a whisper carried by the wind, almost covered by the sound of the rain, "I love you..."  
  
A bright smile was her only answer. Then he was gone, absorbed by the dense crowd around the cart. Earina sighed, gathering the cloak around her frail body, and breathing in her son's scent deeply. She closed her eyes once more. There was nothing to do but wait for the procession to halt.

****

_Thirty five miles from the White City of Gondolin_

****

Glorfindel laughed heartily at Ecthelion's remark, his head thrown backwards; his long braided hair falling down his back. Still snickering, he affectionately patted the strong neck of his stallion, passing a steady hand through the luxurious mane that flew wildly on the strong neck of the horse. Glancing towards the Warden of the Great Gate, the blond rider raised a sceptical eyebrow and, sounding more amused than really offended, said, "You are ill-willed, meleth..."  
  
The only answer he received was a mocking imitation of his stance as the other rider raised a dark eyebrow and asked innocently, "Do you think so?"  
  
A smile lingering on his full lips; Glorfindel brought his horse close to his lover's and, anchoring his blue gaze in Ecthelion's grey one, he answered, "I am quite sure of my theory..."  
  
Both shared a smile that lightened their features, then as if remembering something, Ecthelion glanced back; his intelligent gaze falling on the riders that accompanied them. He slowed his own steed, allowing a respectable distance to grow between them and the other riders. Turning his attention back to his lover and straightening himself in his saddle, he asked more seriously, "Do you think they will reach the Fen of Serech before the night?"  
  
Glorfindel's demeanour tensed immediately; his smooth features betraying his worry as his jaw tightened. He seemed to ponder his answer for some seconds before finally letting out, "I do not know..." He paused briefly then added: "I can only hope so, or pray for them to change their path."  
  
They remained wordless for some time; the silence only disturbed by the light pounding of hooves on the dusty ground. Ecthelion spoke again; his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, "They have many warriors with them, Glorfindel. They are well protected..."  
  
But Glorfindel had no need to see his lover's eyes to know he was not convinced by his own words. Snorting; he wondered sarcastically, "Who are you trying to convince there, Ecthelion? Tell me please. You know as well as I do that there might be two warriors for each Elfling, for each Ellith there would be still danger for them if they come to cross the paths of Orcs."  
  
His lips contorted and his nostrils dilated in displeasure, the dark-haired Elf admitted wryly, "I know..."  
  
Of course he knew. As much as he hated it, he was well aware of that fact. The previous convoy transporting civilians from Nevrast to Gondolin had been discovered and attacked by a large band of wandering Orcs. And even if there had been many warriors, an Ellith had been killed as she tried to bring her children far from the battle. He clenched his teeth. Two children... two small Elflings that would never know how tender and boundless a mother's love could be. Cursed be Melkor's creations. The Orcs were the worst sore of Arda. Killing, raping, and plundering, they were the sworn enemies of Elves.  
  
But they were there to prevent another incident. A scout had located a band of those perverted beasts close to the Fen of Sereith. According to him, they were heading west... in the exact direction of the coming procession. Turgon had sent them to intercept the Orcs before they met the path of the Firstborn.  
  
And Ecthelion of the Fountain intended to do so.  
  
Supporting himself on his stapes, he straightened himself fully and, barely turning toward his lover, he asked, "Is Tarar well rested?"  
  
Glorfindel seemed to ponder the question; concentrating on the regular breathing and steady pace of his mount; then he nodded, "Aye, he is."  
  
A whisper escaped Ecthelion's lips as he turned himself toward the other riders. "Well..." Bringing two long fingers to his mouth, he whistled; the piercing sound shattering the silence of the place. Then sitting down, he gathered his reins and urged his own mount to catch up with Glorfindel's.

TBC...


	4. Fire and Shadows

**Fire and Shadows**

Author: Casualis  
  
Email: Casualis2000yahoo.fr   
  
Website: www.thecrystal.cjb.net  
  
Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.  
  
Warnings: Slash  
  
Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that last through the Ages.   
  
Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir   
  
Thanks: To DA for betareading.  
  
AN: I drew a picture of Glorfindel for Mirasaui. So, if anyone is interested, it's in the Art section of my site. Its title is 'Balrog-Slayer'. ;-) How original...  
  
AN2: This was intended as an NC-17 chapter. Due to FF.net's policy concerning such rating, this chapter is not the original version. If you're interested in the complete chapetr, you can find it on AFF.net or on my site. ****

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Chapter 4: Fire and Shadows

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_Fen of Serech, __End of the day_

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Green orbs were gazing at the sensual dance of the flames that burnt fiercely in the dark, crackling and avidly consuming the wood that gave it life. Mesmerized, Erestor sat close to one of the many hearths scattered through the clearing where they had established a camp. Around him, many people were sleeping; some in the trees, others on the ground. Wherever he looked, his gaze fell on the still form of an Elf. Deep yet heavy silence was hovering over the camp, barely disturbed by the cries of nocturnal animals or by the occasional collapse of wood eaten by fire.

Erestor's hand seized a long branch that he easily broke in half before casting it in the fading fire. He had volunteered to guard the fire for the night. Though he could have used some sleep. He felt more tired than he could ever recall. But tension was making sleep impossible.

He toyed absently with a thick piece of wood; rolling it between his palms, uncaring of the scratches his soft skin might sustain if he kept on. He preferred being there - close to the fire - rather than being restless and unable to sleep. He did not avert his gaze from the hypnotic flames, feeling hopelessly attracted to the hidden strength of the calm element. The fire seemed so friendly at that moment, bearing comfort and warmth. Yet, a single gust of wind could awaken its wrath and it would consume everything.

Erestor liked watching the immaterial seduction of the flames. It had always been so since he had been a child, to his parents' greatest fear. He was attracted to fire as moths were to light. He did not understand how one could remain indifferent to it. He found it fascinating how fire would avidly consume the wood that give it strength and life; not caring that it would inevitably die when wood was unavailable. The fire only knew one thing: burning high and strong, displaying its power even if it meant fading quickly. And everyone yielded to it...respected it. Men, Elves, Nature...all submitted to its will, fearing its shapeless might. And, in the end, it was defeated by itself, by its own inability to temper its greed.

He suddenly felt an itch at the nape of his neck and instinctively turned his head toward the place he had set a bedroll for his mother. From where he was sitting, he could only make out her mane that flew freely down her shoulders. She had not moved since the moment he had tucked her beneath the cover. His heart tightened in his chest at the memory of her exhausted features. Even if he tried not to show it, he was worried for her, for her health and her sanity. The strong and determined she-Elf he had known had disappeared with his father, leaving in her place a distressed child that he treated with the utmost care and love. She needed him. She would be completely lost if it were not for his watchful presence. Sometimes, she would drown herself in the past, not always acknowledging those that came across her path; speaking of people that have long departed as if they were still there and not always recognizing him. He hoped that once the baby was born, she would return to her former self, to the mother he loved more than anything on Arda. He hoped that living in Gondolin, the city with seven names, where they had no past and no memories, would ease her burden and give her a new taste in life.

He tried to imagine how their life would be in Turgon's white city. This move from the old city of Nevrast that overlooked the sea had been planned for years. He could recall evenings spent in the company of his father when he spoke of the construction of the Hidden Rock. He had been told they would get a house bordered by high trees close to the heart of the city. His father had spoken of high unending stairs going through the houses, coiling up around the palaces. According to him, Ondolindë was a city of light and air, a place of beauty and peace.

It had seemed so real and so exciting then. For years, he had waited for the moment when they would leave, living on the promise his father had made him. As soon as they were in Gondolin, he would begin his training as a warrior. Not that he had ever touched a weapon. His father was - had been - a renowned guard of the city, one of Turgon's personal messengers, and had introduced him to the art of fighting as soon as he had been old and strong enough to draw a bow. However nothing would compare with the training of novices.

He sighed. His future as a warrior seemed compromised. Not that he had forsaken his dreams but how would he tell his mother? And above this, where would he find the courage to explain to her that he had decided to take the same path as his father? A path full of dangers and where his life could be taken from him at any moment. Even if they had never spoken of it, he was aware that his mother wished the life of a craftsman for him, far from battlefields. But he knew within himself that he would never be satisfied with such a life. He wanted danger and battles. He wanted the excitement and freedom that were only to be found in vast spaces.

A commotion on the other side of the camp pulled him from his contemplation. Raising his head, he saw horses entering the large clearing they had stopped in, mounted by riders clad in bright armor. He instinctively got up, placing himself between the approaching riders and his sleeping mother. His hand seized the knife hanging at his waist in a fluid gesture; his body tense and his eyes alert, ready if the need arose to awaken her and to take her to safety.

But the horses stopped their approach at the edge of the clearing. Strangely, only a few people reacted to their arrival and ran toward them. The rest of the camp ept on sleeping peacefully. From where he was, he could hear the soft voices of the riders, who had quickly dismounted. Curiosity pushed the youth to take a few steps toward the small gathering, but he refrained himself and glanced guiltily in the direction of his mother, who had not awakened. His emerald gaze fell once more on the group, sparkling in recollection as he recognized the blazon of Gondolin on the harness of the horses. He frowned slightly as some of those Elves were brought in, visibly injured. They made their way through the camp, supported by their fellows.

Erestor bit his bottom lip, want and duty clearly fighting within him. How he would have liked to help them. He had worked for some time with one of the healers of Nevrast and could be useful. But he finally sat down. He would not have his mother awakening alone in that dark place.

Glorfindel knelt slowly, making sure he did not shake the elf in arms too much as he gently put down his burden on one of the improvised beds made of piled cloaks and clothes.A light groan of pain was heard as he relaxed his grasp on the wounded Elf's back and disentangled himself from the other's arms. A compassionate smile graced his features when he caressed the moist brow of the fallen warrior, pushing back some blood-soaked strands; willing to believe the affectionate gesture would relieve some of the pain this Elf was going through. He got up then, his gaze never leaving the Elf's features, leaving room for one of the healers.

A friendly hand brushed his shoulder but he did not jump. He knew who had approached and laid a comforting caress into the nape of his neck. He turned his head slightly; meeting Ecthelion's grey orbs, reading in the bottomless eyes an echo of his own emotions. Turning completely on his heel till he completely faced the other Elf, he wondered briefly if he looked half as terrible as the mighty Warden of the Gate did. They stood silent for long seconds, neither of them speaking. They were almost of the same height; both bearing the angular and delicate features of the Firstborn, and both equally beautiful and powerful. However, while one was born of the golden radiance of the day, the other seemed to emerge from the ebony mystery of the night.

Glorfindel let his gaze roam quickly over the other warrior's body; instinctively knowing the form of the strong body hidden beneath its cage of mithril. Dark strands had escaped their woven prison of braids and fell unruly in the beautiful face marred by grime and dirt. On one of his cheeks, a cut was still bleeding slightly, probably made by an ill-aimed blade. The once so glittering armor had ceased to shine, the dark essence of Orcs melting with the fresh blood of their wounded Elven fellows. But what had caught his attention and brought his mesmerized gaze to his lover was the odd sparkle in the expressive eyes- a sparkle that gave his love a feral and frightening expression.

Glorfindel knew that look…the look of a warrior that had tasted the furious euphoria of revenge and the strong accomplishment of violent killing. He himself had experienced that unique feeling of complete power that seized one once the battle was over and the foes defeated. He knew that soon the euphoria would fade; leaving in its place bitterness and disgust; disgust for enjoying the massacre, for not being better than those who had perished beneath their murderous blades.

No word came to shatter the heavy silence hanging over them. They stared calmly at each other; each knowing without having to ask the turmoil the other was in, the contradictory feelings they were both experiencing. In the enveloping darkness they faced each other in a way that could lead the unknowing beholder to believe that the two mighty warriors were threatening each other, unaware of the silent yet strong promises between the two, held within their unreadable eyes.

But then, Glorfindel's expression softened and something like unexpected tenderness shone in his depthless blue eyes. Slowly, as if willing to give his lover the opportunity to avoid his touch, the golden warrior stretched a steady hand to caress his lover's cheek with great care; softly stroking the flesh torn apart by the cruel bite of the Orcish blade. With the tip of a finger, he wiped away some of the blood that kept on dripping from the gash before tracing the path of a dried bloody tear that soiled the alabaster skin. Feeling the golden-haired warrior's caress seemed to appease the burning flame in Ecthelion's heart slightly and he leaned against his lover's hand, an odd smile ghosting his sensual lips. Then, staring seductively at Glorfindel with half-lidded eyes, his long eyelashes making like a bewitching shadow to the shining grey orbs, the dark-haired Elf caught his lover's wrist and brought the long-fingered hand to his mouth, kissing the golden one's knuckles softly, while trailing a path of butterflies caresses with his lips on the strong palm without ever ceasing to stare at him. A shiver ran the length of Glorfindel's spine as a feral gleam passed through his lover's eyes before Ecthelion darted a luscious tongue around his finger, licking at his own blood. He found himself unable to say if it was born of repulsion or of his awakening arousal.

Ecthelion seemed to feel the emotions fighting within his lover and his smile widened, making him appear almost predatory, like a lazy feline playing with an unwilling prey. The ebony Elf spoke in a husky demanding voice, his moist breath caressing the skin of the hand he had not yet released, "You should not remain there… I suggest you go and seek a place for us to sleep…" He paused, a sensual smile ghosting his lips before he added while finally letting go of Glorfindel's hand after a last kiss that seemed to bear promises of much more pleasure, "…in peace tonight…"

The golden-haired warrior felt a shudder of anticipation running the length of his spine; knowing well what kind of pleasures were awaiting after the pains and the grief of the fight. It had always been so and he found himself unable to explain why. It was as if their passion were heightened by the past dangers, as if the violence of battle brought the stars and the heaven closer to them. Every time they made love in the aftermath of death and blood, it was as if they were discovering each other again, as if they were making love for the first time again and again. Glorfindel knew that in the enveloping torpor of the night, he would soon melt away in his lover's embrace. He knew that soon their bodies would be joined in a silent celebration… Celebration for having held onto the oath they had once made to come back to each other alive and whole. He could almost feel Ecthelion's body against his own, trembling and shivering while muttering musical nonsense to his ears as they would reach burning completion. Lost in the heat of his thoughts and drowning in the fascinating grey haze of his lover's gaze, he felt himself grow hard.

Moistening his dried lips with a tantalizing tongue, the golden-haired Elf shook himself from his thoughts. Pulling himself out of his reverie, he turned on his heel wordlessly and walked without sparing the ebony-haired warrior another glance as he headed towards the bright fires that burnt strongly through the place, knowing that Ecthelion would join him as soon as his injuries were tended.

Somewhere in the thick velvet night, a troubled pained moan was heard, making its way toward the place where Erestor was sitting by, eliciting a shiver that ran the length of the youth's spine. He closed his eyes as if willing to protect himself from that pain that awakened in him feelings he would have liked to push away. After some moments, he realized that the peaceful silence had come back to the clearing and he opened his eyes again staring emptily at the crackling fire that threw moving shadows, mercilessly weaving a net of memories around him.

The dark-haired youth let out a discreet sigh and brought a hand to his cheek, wiping away the lone tear that had traced its path the length of his soft cheek. He did not want to cry, for he felt that if his tears began to fall, they would never end. He refused to weep for those memories that were following him restlessly as a tormented ghost would, never leaving him nor giving him any respite. Usually he would push them aside, closing the doors of his mind to them or losing himself in the light of the stars, refusing to simply think. If this were not enough, he would think of his mother who needed him so much and who would always need him.

But there was no escape possible. For there he was alone with dying warriors that lay a few feet away from him. For there neither the light of the stars nor the fascinating dance of the flames nor the image of his peacefully sleeping mother were enough to save him from what he did not wish to face. Restlessly dancing in his mind again and again, twirling in a frightened waltz, the same confusing vision was darkening his sight, bringing unbidden tears to his glazed eyes.

His father… Lying in the dusty mud, suffering as one of those that were whimpering in the night… life leaving him slowly in an excruciating agony…the name of his wife and of his son on his lips…

This was no new vision to him. The question had often come to him as no one had ever chosen to speak to him of his sire's last moments. He could only suppose that his end had not been a merciful one as heavy clouds would appear in the eyes of those he would ask. He only knew that on his last mission as a messenger for Turgon, his father and other guards had been attacked by some wandering Men. At this thought, his lips tightened into a thin line, anger building within him. Men…Not Orcs, that doomed race, creation of the dark will of Melkor, but Men, who were called the Second Born, who had come to Arda for the same reason as the Firstborn before them: to live there and prosper in peace, to rejoice for the gifts that place had to offer. Men had taken his father's life.

But he knew little else and that lack of knowledge would haunt him forever. He could not help but wonder if his father had suffered, if he who had been so proud and strong in life had cried and screamed when he had seen the gates of Mandos' Halls opening before him. He knew that those questions would never leave him. He dreamt of it at night when his grasp on his mind relaxed as he would walk the Elven dreamscape. Every night, he would see his father fall from his loyal steed, an arrow protubering from his back, his pupils dilated by suffering and his lips parted to let out a pained surprised cry. He would see him pierced by a vile human sword wielded by a worthless hand before the blade would be retrieved from his sire's flesh and sever the beloved head from the shoulders he had so often sat on as a child. Every night, he would awaken, in a cold sweat and shivering in spite of the warmth of his room, a cry smothered in his throat and his father's name muffled on his lips. Every night, he would wish to cry himself to sleep but only sometimes did he allow himself to do it, cursing in his sobs those who had shattered his life and his hopes. But most of nights, he would satisfy himself by laying on his back, staring at the white ceiling of his room, his heart filled with mingling anger and impotence.

Every night, he would feel like letting the hatred in his heart overwhelm all his being and he would feel resentment for all. For the men who had taken his father's life; for his sire who had not known to protect himself; for his mother who left him struggling with the aftermath of his father's absence. But above all else, he hated himself for being so weak, for not being able to manage, for feeling as if everything was out of control.

A shadow fell on him as someone walked to the high fire. Startled by the silent interruption, he raised his eyes, trying to see who was standing still in front of the incandescent flames and he found himself looking at the impassive features of a golden warrior he had never seen before. Averting his gaze as he did not wish to be caught staring, the force of habit made him glance in the direction of his sleeping mother.

Yet his eyes seemed to stray of their own volition towards the proud frame of the unknown Elf. The youth noticed behind his long dark lashes the delicate face and the graceful body hidden beneath dark armor. This Elf was beautiful. Never had Erestor beheld such an image of complete ethereal strength. He wondered briefly how one could appear so terrible and magnificent at the same time.

He would have liked to find some words but he could not urge himself to interrupt the warrior's dreaming state, preferring for a reason unknown to him to stare at the highlights playing in the blond strands, at the flickering of the fire on the pale skin. Suddenly, breaking the perfect harmony of the moment, the flaxen-haired Elf seemed to acknowledge his presence and their eyes met. The dark-haired youth felt his breath catch in his throat as they stared wordlessly at each other for the briefest moment. The warrior's eyes were of the deepest blue but not the blue of a peaceful lipid river. His were like the light curtain of mist on the large surface of the ocean when he would awaken in his room in Nevrast, watching from his window the cliffs where the sea came to crash.

The tall warrior kept on staring at him with those hazy eyes of his and Erestor could not help blushing. He did not avert his gaze, mesmerized by the moving shadows of those orbs as he was by the tantalizing dance of the flames. He was not so lost that he could not wonder why the golden Elf was looking at him so, wondering if he was really seeing him… Yet he never got an answer to those questions as the rustling of bushes sounded close to them, breaking the spell silence had woven around them. They both turned in time to see a dark-haired Elf emerge from the surrounding forest, his lithe slender frame still blending with the cloud of the deep night. Stopping a few feet away from them, he gracefully stretched his right hand in their direction and murmured softly, "Meleth…"

There was so much passion in that single word that Erestor felt an unbidden shiver running the length of his spine. He might be young and still untouched but he was not completely ignorant of the pleasure of the flesh. He watched how the flaxen-haired warrior turned away from him without another glance and joined his lover in a few steps, twining their fingers together. The possessiveness in that simple display of affection made his stomach tighten and, as he watched them walk away, an alien feeling took hold of him, leaving him hungry for something he was quite unable to define . As the night's arms swallowed both Elves, he resumed his silent watch over the fire, trying to chase away the memory of blue clouded eyes.

The two warriors walked through the darkened woods, their hands still joined in a possessive gesture. They did not speak, preferring to remain in a comfortable and companionable silence. Glorfindel was not sure of where Ecthelion was leading him but, for the moment, he did not really care, too busy to gather his thoughts after what had happened with the frail-looking, raven-haired youth.

Glorfindel, Chief of the House of the Golden Flower, one of the most trusted of Turgon's captains, was gifted by an occasional ability of foreseeing what was to come. Yet never had he been caught so unawares as he had been a few minutes ago. He could still feel himself lulled into the vast and deep green ocean of the Elfling's orbs. Then, as much as he had tried to fight it, he had been unable to contain the flow of his mind and found himself trapped into the moving shadows of an uncertain future. His trance had been abruptly shattered by the arrival of the Guardian of the Great Gate and he was still dizzy of what he had seen or heard, feeling as if his mind and body were separated from each other.

As they came to a halt, the golden-haired warrior blinked once, trying to clear his sight and deeply breathing in the spicy fresh scent of the place. He was surprised to find that Ecthelion had brought them to a small river that ran through the forest. Turning an interrogative gaze in his lover's direction he met eyes that seemed filled with a demanding lust.

"We are in dire need for a bath," explained the raven-haired Elf that had felt the unspoken question. Ecthelion then approached his still lover, feeling more than seeing the silent shiver of anticipation that ran the length of the broad back. He made quick work of the clasps holding the heavy armor to the strong body. Stepping aside, he let Glorfindel divest himself of his tunic and, without a word, mimicked the flaxen-haired Elf's gestures, anchoring his grey eyes into clearer ones. Once naked, they faced each other, beautiful and ethereal, confident in their strength and might. They were bathed in the silvery moonlight that filtered through the dense leaves of the trees and seemed to caress their soft skins almost lovingly. For a long moment, neither of them moved, as if mesmerized by the vision that greeted their sights.

Ecthelion was the first to recover his wits and, gesturing to his lover to follow him, he entered the smooth flow of the river.

The woods were silent, as nature seemed to slumber in the darkness of the night. Birds had stopped singing a long time ago and the only sounds that pierced the silence were the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the clear crystalline flow of water against the rocks of the stream.

But appearances were deceiving, for neither trees nor animals slept. Alert, they stood guard under Ithil's benevolent gaze, watching over the two beings in the small clearing as they would have the most perfect treasure. Mayhap, they were. Firstborns were dear to Nature as their hearts were dedicated to the wholeness of all beings on Arda and its soul quivered in harmony with their songs, sharing mysteries and secrets of old times.

They stood guard, ready to cry in alarm if any foes came to threaten the harmony of the instant. But in the moonlight none came to disturb them and the hours flew peacefully. The old souls of the forest had no eye to see what happened so they did not see the games of the shadows on the lithe bodies displayed in love-making. But they heard their cries as both reached completion and they felt their blissful contentment as they collapsed on the ground. They shook their leaves, warmed by the beauty of Elven love.

They remained still for several minutes, their bodies joined, their legs intimately entwined. No words were spoken. Silent, they struggled for air, listening to the violent beatings of their hearts. Then Glorfindel let himself be cradled in his lover's surprisingly tender arms. After their wild joining, it never ceased to amaze him how such violence and need could switch to soft embraces in a matter of seconds.

As heavy languor soon overwhelmed them, they chose to remain still, content with the deep feeling of intimacy that still hovered around them. A warm hand caressed his moist brow, pushing aside some wayward strands of golden hair and tucking them behind a leaf-shaped ear as Glorfindel leaned into the caress while listening to the steady pace of his lover's heart. His eyelids drifted shut and he let himself slide into a very light slumber.

But, as he closed his eyes, his mind suddenly recalled what he had foreseen in the youth's eyes. So much pain, so many tears. Such a grim future for one so young and so ignorant of life.

Holding him close, Ecthelion felt the unexpected tension in his lover's lithe body and, unconsciously, he tightened his grasp on the slender waist. He knew what bothered Glorfindel, he had recognized the hazy look of his lover's eyes when he had entered the clearing and sought him out. The Valar had deemed fit to bestow his lover with the gift of foresight but there were days when the Warden of the Great Gate thought it much more a curse than a blessing. Gently caressing the velvety skin of his love's hip, he whispered, his voice soft and caring, "What did you see?"

It took Glorfindel several more seconds to find the words. Not that Ecthelion's words surprised him. The raven-haired Elf knew him better than anyone else…sometimes better than he did himself. It was rather that he could not define what he foresaw. He did not really see. It was much more of a feeling, of a warning in his mind. He did not experience visions, but lingering and marking impressions. Sighing, his thoughts plunged into draining memories, he whispered, "Blood… Fire…Pain…"

Ecthelion could not bring himself to answer the grief he heard in the golden warrior's voice, knowing that none of his words would ever comfort his lover. Instead, he gathered his beloved in his arms and his voice rose in the peaceful night, singing an appeasing lullaby of old times.

**TBC...**


	5. Left behind

**Fire and Shadows**

Author: Casualis  
  
Email: Casualis2000yahoo.fr  
  
Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.  
  
Warnings: Character death  
  
Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that lasted through the Ages.  
  
Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir  
  
Thanks: To DA for betareading.  
  
AN: A short update. Next chapter will be much longer, I promise. ;-)

* * *

**Chapter 6 : Left Behind**

* * *

_Solitude  
Forever me and forever you  
Solitude  
Only you, Only true  
Everyone leaves me stranded  
Forgotten, abandoned left behind  
I can't stay here another night  
  
Evanescence, Solitude_

_

* * *

_

_October, year 116 of the First Age,  
City of Gondolin_

Erestor was sitting on the cool floor of the great healing wing of the palace, his long legs crossed beneath him; his buttocks rested on his bare heels while his shoes lay forgotten close to him. He shifted slightly, grimacing at the sudden rush of blood into his limbs. He did not know for how long he had been there as all notions of time had fled his mind. He was not aware of those unending minutes which had turned into long and boring hours. The dark-haired youth had satisfied himself with staring at his hands as they danced restlessly in his lap, occasionally glancing around him. No emotion came to blur the depth of his shining green eyes. His thin face was blank, not betraying any of the thoughts that might have touched him.

However, Erestor's indifferent pose gave way to plain anguish as a moan muffled by the thick wooden door reached his sharp ears. He paled visibly and his right hand came to rest against his chest, as though trying to contain the wild beating of his heart. Alcanarmo's son struggled to regain his indifferent composure but, in spite of all his efforts, he could not help biting his cheek in a childish gesture that made him appear much younger than he was indeed. Apparently displeased with his lack of strength, he shook his head, uncaring of the wild raven locks that fell in his face. He did little to push back the wayward strands, preferring to remain hidden behind the silky curtain like a frightened deer seeking shelter from avid predators.

But this state of peace lasted no longer than a brief moment. The door he was facing turned on its hinges, revealing a sweet-faced maiden whose long dress brushed his knees as she walked by him, smiling softly at him as he huddled against the wall. But Erestor did not see the kindness of the smile nor the complaisance in her gentle eyes. The youth had only eyes for the dreadful sight of the bloodied tissues she was carrying in a discreet basket and, as a shiver ran the length of his spine, he felt his blood turn cold in fear. Healers had tried to convince him to wait somewhere else but he had refused, wishing to be close to her. He straightened himself, trying to glance inside the dark room where his mother was. But someone closed the door before he had time to catch any sign of her presence.

A soft sigh escaped his lips and Erestor seemed to retreat further within himself, the faint gleam of awareness fading from his eyes. He then resumed his silent contemplation of the white wall in front of him, his long limbs agitated by a faint motion of balancing. He let his mind wander far from this place, far from his fears. He tried to imagine his life with a sister at his side; a child who would look upon him for guidance and love, who would bring back a sparkle of joy in his mother's eyes. He did not know how a brother was supposed to behave but he was sure of one thing: He would love and protect her in the same way as he took care of his mother.

Another cry broke his reverie, sounding through the empty corridor; its origin unmistakable. He would have recognized this voice anywhere, even if its lilting quality was filled a raw and heart-wrenching pain.

It was his mother's voice. It was his Naneth who was behind those thick unwelcoming walls, separated from him by that closed door, suffering alone in giving birth to his baby sister. She was alone… This simple thought made him wish to cover his ears and flee more than the screams he had heard or the blood on the hands of the healers when they left the room in a hurry. He felt helpless…useless, sitting there when all she needed was a loving touch to comfort her, a tender caress to appease her pain, a soft hand to hold hers when the pain became too much to bear.

Time seemed to slow even more, each minute an agony of endless waiting. Every time the door opened, he would raise eyes filled with hope and be disappointed once more when the Elf leaving the room would pass in front of him without a glance. His body was numb and anything beyond who passed that door had lost every kind of interest. He almost did not notice when his mother's painful cries turned into pitiful moans before completely fading. Silence fell on the small room to be suddenly shattered by the angered tears of a new-born babe.

It was only then that the raven-haired youth emerged from his dreaming stance, his tired eyes staring at the door as though the most awaited miracle had happened. And, in a way, it had.

He did not know what he had expected after this. Perhaps a healer coming to seek him out so that he might be introduced to his little sister. Perhaps he had imagined himself bending over a small bundle resting against his mother's breast. However, never had he expected the mayhem that suddenly broke out. The door opened violently; a distressed voice resounded, "Find Lienilde!" and someone ran through the long corridor, uncaring of the few Elves he bumped into.

As much as he wished he could, Erestor could not bring himself to react to those sudden motions. He turned his head in the direction of the running Elf, blood beating violently against his temples like a drummer that had suddenly gone mad, frozen as his mind refused to acknowledge the horrible truth.

'Something has happened.'

The words were spinning in his ears until they were no more than a strong annoying buzz. His gaze was caught by the open door from where clear sounds of agitation escaped. Two Elves entered the room with apprehension and he stared at their tense features as they disappeared through the doorway, dread growing in his heart. Like a broken doll, he managed to stand and to approach the door, his steps unsure as his lithe silhouette clearly stood out in the frame of the door.

All of sudden, he felt light-headed to the point of fainting, his legs that trembled beneath him threatening not to bear him any longer as he took in the forbidden sight of his mother's room. A young Elleth was standing in a corner, holding a crying bundle of swaddling clothes in her graceful arms. But his eyes didn't linger on her for long, pulled to the great bed where his mother was lying still and unconscious, surrounded by three healers. It was only then that he noticed the source of the worry agitating the room.

Blood…Blood everywhere, soaking the sheets that had once been of the purest white, soiling the pale skin of the healers' hands which worked between his mother's parted legs. Never had he seen her looking so frail. If she had looked ill before, she seemed paler now than the marble statues that bordered the path to their house. It was then that he realized that he couldn't feel it anymore, the comforting sparkle of warmth that bound each Elf to their parents. In its place remained only silence and a frightening cold.

Erestor could feel tears inundating his cheeks, his breathe coming out in short excruciating expirations of air. His world was spinning around him. It seemed to him that he was watching this scene from afar as though he wasn't this too pale and too thin youth that cried silently in front of his mother's death bed. For he had finally named that alien void that inhabited him. His mother's feä had left her body, flying to the unwelcoming Halls of Mandos where he wouldn't be able to see her lest he himself forsook his life or was killed.

And suddenly, his spirit rebelled against that knowledge.

She could not be dead. She had promised she would never leave him. She had held him in her arms, his head resting on her growing belly, and he had spoken the oath he had clung to, "I will always be there for you, Naneth…". Smiling she had echoed, "I will never leave you, _ion-nin_."

But she had lied. She was gone. All those healers could try whatever they wanted; he knew they were trying in vain. Her eyes glazed by the cold of death would never shine with warm awareness again. He was alone.

Alone.

No! That was not true. His mother never lied! Never would she lie to him and betray their oath. Never would she utter words without sense. Reason fleeing him, he shook himself from his immobility and propelled himself to his mother's side, bumping into the red-haired Elleth that held a lifeless hand and spoke words that were not heard. He grasped the arm that had once held him with strength and love and was now inert and heavy. He did not know that he was speaking senseless words as he was begging her. Silvery tears were falling on the pale skin he was kissing as though calling to her, asking her to remain at his side, asking her to stay if not for him then for the baby.

Unfriendly hands took hold of him, trying to drag him away from his mother but he fought against them as he had never fought before, as if his very life depended on it. In the end, they were stronger than he was and he could only watch how the form of the she-Elf that had given life to him moved away little by little. In vain did he stretch his arm in her direction; they inexorably and ruthlessly took him away. He was not aware of his screams of despair that resounded against the low ceiling of the infirmary. Only the perception of this unending void inside him reached him and filled him with obsession. This was not true. This could not be true.

As soon as he felt the grasp of the hands loosen, he quickly evaded them and ran away from that nightmare under the frightened gaze of the helpless healer.

TBC…


	6. Not alone

**Fire and Shadows**

Author: Casualis  
  
Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.  
  
Warnings: None  
  
Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that last through the Ages.   
  
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir   
  
Thanks: To DA for betareading 

* * *

_Just some notes about this chapter. Information taken from the Council of Elrond, the Encyclopaedia of Arda, the Silmarillion and the Books of Lots Tales_

Gondolin was situated on the sides and summit of Amon Gwareth, a hill that originally rose up from the center of the circular dry lake of Tumladen in the Encircling Mountains in the north of Beleriand. It was a white city with a tall white Tower where the King lived. Turgon built many high and graceful towers and great shining walls. It was Ulmo's power in the vale of Sirion that kept the city hidden from Melkor's eyes.

The city was ruled by Turgon. His daughter was Idril Celebrindal, which means Idril the Silver-Foot because she always went bare-footed and bare-headed in spite of her status. She was born in Aman during the Years of the Trees. She left the Blessed Lands with her parents and the other Noldor. Led by Fingolfin and his sons, they crossed the Helcaraxë (Grinding Glace) and many perished, among which was Elenwë, Idril's mother.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Not alone**

* * *

_Gondolin, The King's Tower  
First Age, October Year 116_

Idril Celebrindal crossed quickly the Halls of her father's Tower, too worried to spare a glance at the pictorial and architectural wonders gracing the halls. Her bare feet brought her into the Main Hall where the great tapestries that depicted the Two Trees that had brought light to the fair Valinor, born as they had been of the union of Yavanna's songs and Niënna's tears, hung on the walls. No one knew who had woven those pictures but this gift was greatly treasured, for the artist had captured the very essence of Aman and it seemed that Laurelin and Telperion were standing in the middle of the small crowd that rarely departed the Hall, relishing in their memories of the eternal lands.

There, she was greeted by one of her father's Councillors with all the respect and deference due to those of her station. But Turgon's daughter ignored him blatantly, oblivious to his offended expression and she disappeared around a corner, her golden mane capturing the light of Anor that filtered through the high stained-glass windows.

There, far from any prying eyes, she almost indulged in the temptation of running, wishing to reach her regal father as soon as possible, but years spent at court had taught her well what was considered proper for a Lady. And running through the White Tower like the last of the stable boys was far from being considered as a proper thing to do. So instead, she lengthened her stride and grasped in her long-fingered hand the front of her dress to ease her walk, uncaring of the velvet and the silk that billowed around her in a most unbecoming manner; revealing her long white shins to the few who came across her path.

Idril climbed the high stairs that coiled up the centre of the building, never stopping to catch her breath, but silently cursed the Elf who had advised her father to place the throne room at the top of the Tower. Many steps later, she finally reached the Hall of Court and breathed a sigh of relief.

Walking slowly the last few steps that separated her from the great wooden door in front of which two guards were standing watch, she smiled softly at them and quickly undertook to repair the disarray of her dress and of her tresses caused by her race through the palace. Pushing some recalcitrant golden strands behind her leaf-shaped ears, she then opened the heavy panel of the door with a light hand and entered the Court Room; her lithe silhouette sliding through the shadows of the room without being noticed.

Silently closing the door behind her, she stopped once more; her gaze taking in the sight of the small crowd. Knowing her father's displeasure at being interrupted during such meetings, she had no wish of attracting more attention than necessary. Yet, she could not delay the moment of informing him about the recent tragedy that had befallen their House.

Seeking a discreet way to attract her sire's attention, Idril distractedly took note of the presence of the chiefs of the ten noble Houses of the City that supported the House of the King: Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain to whom the Valar had given the fairest voice of the Quendi; Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower gifted with incomparable beauty and courage; Penlod the Tall of the House of the Pillar who ruled also over the House of the Tower of Snow; Duilin the Sharp-eyed of the House of the Swallow; Galdor of the House of the Tree the bravest among all the Gondolindrim.

She knew them all, for together, they had undertaken the journey from the Blessed Lands of Aman to the consecrated landscapes of Arda and none of them had reached the shore unscathed. They had all lost loved ones in that fateful journey and together, they had built a new life out of their tears. These Elves were much more than subalterns to her father; they were the pillars upon which Turgon's rule was standing.

The respect she felt in her heart for those great warriors turned into love as her gray eyes fell on her father who sat proudly on his throne of gold and mithril, his crown shining strongly on his noble brow. A smile lightened Idril's fair features as she observed him answering a question. With the loss of her mother, the bond she shared with her sire had only grown stronger with every day and there was no questioning of the great affection she felt for him.

Shifting her weight to her other foot, she kept her eyes fixed on Turgon's features as she sought eye contact, wishing for his attention. As such, it did not take much longer for the King to acknowledge his beloved daughter's presence. As he took in the sight of his child, he stood with great dignity and motioned her forward with a gesture of his hand; everyone falling silent at the sudden move of their liege.

Walking the central aisle, on each side of which the Lords of the War sat, she felt herself blushing slightly under the compelling gazes. Even if her time in Arda was nothing when compared to the age of these great Elves, Idril Celebrindal was no child and was well aware that in most of the stares fixed on her were holding emotions that went beyond the respect due to the King's daughter.

She was true in her perception. Many of those who beheld Fingolfin's granddaughter did so with love…with the love of a father for his child. These Elves had served Turgon's House for a time so long that speaking of it would have given dizziness to the eldest of the mortal race of Men. They had seen her playing in the great gardens of Aman; they had seen her cry over the loss of a doll or the evanescence of Spring. They had seen her grow from a wild Elfling to a magnificent Elleth who bore her station among Elvenkind with grace and beauty. She was their princess and they had sworn to die before any harm befell her.

But some also saw the uncommon beauty of this Lady who had only inherited her incomparable grace from her mother. For Idril was Turgon's daughter in every way; the same features that could turn from soft like the morning dew to hard like the mountains which hide their city; the same eyes that could dance with mirth or contempt; the same temper that could have brought to confront the will of the Valar if they thought it necessary. And, for the heart of some Elves were no better than those of Men, they saw in her a way to assuage a power they desired above anything else.

Curtsying gracefully in front of her father's throne, the golden-haired Elleth knelt close to him; one slender hand on the King's strong arm, her dress pooling in graceful waves around her lithe frame. Raising sad eyes to meet Turgon's, she mustered her strength to murmur in his ear, as her words meant for her sire alone, "My Lord father, I am afraid I come to you bearer of ill-news. Your cousin's Feä journeyed to Mandos' Halls, leaving in our care her son and a new-born daughter…" Her last words were no more than a whisper, betraying the grief she herself felt at being the one who delivered this news. She noticed then the distant look in her father's eyes and she grasped his arm more strongly, drawing his attention back to her, "My Lord," she continued, urgency making her voice quiver slightly, "her son disappeared when he learned of his mother's fate. He is nowhere to be found…"

She saw how her father's eyes took a thoughtful shade and she averted her gaze, respecting his pain. She had never really known Earina. When Idril had been born, Alcanarmo had already taken her as his wife and the red-haired beauty had not been considered as kin anymore. But she knew that her father had disapproved of the familial decision even if he had acceded to it. Idril was well aware that, now that those children were alone, her father would personally see to their well-being.

However, faced with her father's grieved silence, the fair Elleth whispered softly, trying to bring him back to the reality of more pressing matters, her eyes watering at the thought of the dark-haired child's pain, "The guards I sent through the city did not find trace of him, my Lord." Her voice broke as she was not able anymore to contain the tears that flowed slowly down her rosy cheeks. Sighing in despair, she confessed, "Adar, I am at a loss on what to do…"

Her only answers were a soft squeeze on her pale arm and a tender hand wiping away a tear on her face. Gray eyes met gray eyes in the same sorrow before the King rose in front of his court; his starched robes rustling against the cold marble of the ground. As Turgon stood, all those present did the same and eyes filled with curiosity and worry fixed on the mighty monarch, wondering as to the matter of this unexpected interruption.

"Lords of Gondolin," began Turgon, his voice filled with the authority natural to those of his rank, "let me be the bearer of sad news…" At those words, a low rumble agitated the small gathering and few were those who remained silent in the expectancy of explanation. Yet, the sight of the King's hand rising to ask for attention calmed them. Taking in a deep inhalation of air, Fingolfin's heir continued, "Alcanarmo's wife passed away a few hours ago leaving in Our loving care a son and a daughter."

His lips tightened in suppressed anger when he heard the whispers of relief floating over the crowd. Of course, they had feared a threat to the city. Compared to such a thing, what did the passing of an Elleth mean? But he also met eyes filled with sympathy and emotion for many had known Earina's husband and his terrible fate. Those felt grief over the tragedy that had once more befallen the family.

Raising his head and straightening himself to his full height, he continued, "Driven by his grief, her son disappeared…" He took a single step forward and his imposing shadow fell upon them as he announced, "Lords of war, Our wishes are simple…Find this lost child and bring him to Us."

Turgon walked slowly through the small nursery, his body rocking smoothly as it was often the case with those who held small children in their arms. After long minutes of childish songs and much pacing, the child had finally stopped crying and the only sound was the soft pounding of light Elven feet on the ground.

The King had been left alone with his burden a few moments ago at his request, much to the dismay of the Healer who had not seemed to think him able to take care of the small infant. Sighing, he sat himself slowly in the welcoming chair that rested in a corner of the well-lit room, close to the windows, studying in awed silence the crumpled features of the newborn in his arms. Suddenly, he felt his heart tighten in his chest. Poor little thing… Bereft of his Naneth at the very moment she had opened her eyes in this world; deprived of her father a few months after her conception; the only family she had left was an elusive brother, which grief had overwhelmed and who had disappeared.

"Pen-neth…" the King whispered with barely smothered emotion, his gray eyes taking in the sight of the lightest fluttering of lashes. He then resumed then his balancing motion, "We will take care of you."

He could feel his own sorrow lurking beneath his facade of calm and dignity as he rocked the small Elfling. He had known Earina for her whole life and she had been like a sister to him. He had loved her with the affection of a brother and he had often wondered if, had Alcanarmo not stolen her heart, this love would not have grown into something more passionate between them. Contrary to many of his family, he had never reproached her about her dalliance with the young and beautiful guard. At the very moment he had seen them together, he had known they had belonged with each other…night and day melting to form the most beautiful of dawn. He had known they had been happy and to him, it had been enough. Never had he understood why others persisted in denying them their joy. After Alcanarmo's passing, he had watched over the little family from afar. But now, this distance would be no more. He and Idril were the only family they had and in memory of his bittersweet love for the red-haired beauty, he would watch over her offspring. It was a duty he would perform willingly.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his musings and Turgon straightened himself before allowing the visitor inside. A ray of sun seemed to enter the room in the same moment as the golden visitor that bowed in front of the ruler still holding the sleeping infant.

"My Lord," he greeted softly, unwilling to rouse the child from its light slumber.

"Glorfindel, mellonen," answered the King, his voice low and deep, "have you found him?"

Eyes that fell to the ground, features that took a grim expression and broad shoulders that slumped slightly were the only answers the Monarch of Gondolin needed to understand that the searches had been unfruitful till now.

A deep grief-filled sigh escaped Turgon's lips as he averted his gaze from his long-time friend to stare at the vision of the glowing splendour of the city he had built. He remained thus for several seconds; the presence of the Chief of the House of the Golden Flower a mere shadow in his thoughts. However, the sound of the golden Elf clearing his throat caught his attention back and weary gray eyes met concerned blue ones. The King asked then, his voice just as low as before, "What do you want, Glorfindel?"

The flaxen-haired warrior took a step forward and stood boldly closer to the King he had sworn allegiance to, one hand on his narrow hip, the other pushing back the curtain and revealing further the sight of the city. He explained then, "My Lord, the guards of the Gates saw him leave the city with his horse. The son of Alcanarmo is not to be found in our direct surroundings. Ecthelion and I, we wish to send patrols in direction of the mountains." He paused and waited for the King's decision.

But Turgon only sighed and leaned back against the back of the chair, still rocking the sleeping babe, his eyes unfocused. A long moment passed in heavy silence and Glorfindel could not hep(help) but wonder if the King had forgotten his request. But Turgon opened his eyes again and answered, his voice no more than a worried whisper, "Do whatever you need to. I want him back in the Tower. He should be here, comforted in his grief, taken care of, not lost the Valar know where…"

Glorfindel felt sympathy grow in his heart for the King as he gazed at the grief-stricken face he knew so well. Bowing slightly, he quickly left the room, decided to find the youth before some ill happened.

_Vale of Tumladen, End of the Day_

Born from the fury of the sky, a low rumble seemed to filled the vast plain of Tumladen; the threatening sound growing and growing until it culminated in an explosion of rare wrath. Straightening himself on his trembling mount's back, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower rose startled eyes to the darkened sky, taken unaware by the intensity of the thunderclap. He sighed then before patting the wet neck of his stallion consolingly.

The storm had come as a surprise as they were following the trail left by Alcanarmo's son and its intensity had taken them aback. Seldom did Manw's anger swoop down thus on the Hidden Rock.

Glorfindel closed his eyes against the violent wind that slammed down great curtains of water in his face, hampering his sight and threatening his balance. Bending his head, he peered down in the direction of the other riders that had stopped a few feet away. In spite of his keen Elven sight, he could only distinguish moving shadows through the storm. His hand still caressed the coat of his mount while he murmured words of comfort as he chose wisely to wait for the tempest to calm slightly before seeking Ecthelion's presence.

When the strength of the rain seemed to lessen, he raised his head once more and urged his horse forward, his gaze fixed on the lithe frame of a rider whom he would have known anywhere. A bitter smile came to his lips as he beheld his lover's face, taking in the sight of the drenched armor and of the dark strands of hair clinging to the fair face and slender neck. Their eyes met as a vivid light striped the sky, seeming to tear apart its dark velvet, and they were both brought back to that long-gone day when Ossë and Uinen's wrath had brought death to many of their friends. That fateful day, they had stood together at the bow of a ship taken from the Teleri. The wind had blown and the waters had struck, very much as it did now. They had watched helplessly, praying to the very gods they had deserted and betrayed, as some of those ill-acquired boats had moaned and cracked before sinking in the dark ocean. This day would be engraved in their mind forever and its memory would never leave them.

"We need to go back, meleth!" screamed the Warden of the Great Gate, one hand covering his eyes, "We have lost his trail and we cannot see anything be…" The rest of his words were drowned in a strong thunderclap and a few seconds later, another thunderbolt lit the surrounding darkness.

During this short time, Glorfindel had a very clear vision of his lover, seeing how his pupils had dilated till his gray orbs seemed to be depthless pools of eternal darkness, staring at those perfectly shaped lips that moved without a sound being heard. Then everything was plunged in shadows again. Needing to make himself heard, Glorfindel approached Ecthelion before screaming back, "We cannot leave him here!" In his mind, he could see the image of those haunted green orbs and could not bring himself to turn his back on the child when he knew Erestor was not so far away.

Ecthelion shook his head, trying to rid himself from the strands that hampered his sight. He understood how his lover felt for he did not wish to leave Alcanarmo's son alone in such a storm anymore than Glorfindel. But he was aware of the helplessness of such a search now that the rain was falling so strongly. The horses were afraid of the thunder and they had lost the youth's trail because of the heavy rain. There was no point in remaining here.

As if to illustrate his thoughts, his own mount reared, frightened by the fall of a heavy branch a few feet away from them. "We cannot remain here," Ecthelion asserted his opinion, anchoring his gray gaze onto his lover's as much as he could given the circumstances. He had made his decision and he would not go back on his words.

He saw Glorfindel shaking his head in refusal. The Warden of the Great Gate knew well the strange flame that lit his lover's eyes. The golden-haired Elf had chosen to keep up the search and nothing Ecthelion could say would change his mind. His lips tightened in a thin line. His lover could be the most stubborn of Elves when he decided to be. There was no possible argument.

Tightening his grip on his reins to prevent his mount from stepping aside, Ecthelion addressed his lover, screaming at the top of his lungs, hoping that Glorfindel would hear his words, "Do as you wish! But the others and I, we go back to the city!"

The only sign that his lover had indeed heard his words was the glare he received. Shaking his head to express his disapproval, Glorfindel made his stallion back off by using his voice before disappearing behind the curtain of rain.

Ecthelion's grasp on the mane of his mount tightened in anger and he approached one of his lieutenants, ordering him to gather all the warriors before they went back to the City. Sitting straight on his stallion's broad back, oblivious to the storm for the first time since it began, he watched in silence as the others' departed, a deep frown marring his fair features. Glancing behind in the direction Glorfindel had disappeared and cursing the golden-haired Elf, Ecthelion finally reached a decision and turned his back to the City, urging his mount forward in the hope to catch up with his lover.

TBC…

* * *

_I just wish to thanks all those who reviewed this so far. Your support means a lot._   
_Thanks again_


	7. The flight

**Fire and Shadows**

Author: Casualis

Email: Casualis2000yahoo.fr

Disclaimer: They are not mine. They are Tolkien's creations, I'm just toying with them.

Warnings: Slash

Summary: Hopes, oaths, doubts and desillusions... An ordinary love story that lasted through the Ages.

Pairings: Glorfindel/Erestor, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Erestor/Lindir

Thanks: To DA for betareading

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**Chapter 7: The flight**

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In the vast plain of Tumladen, the storm was violently reaching its peak and all of nature submitted in front of its anger. The high noble trees scattered through the plain bended beneath the assaults of the furious wind. The motherly soil let flow the water it could not absorb, causing long shining rivulets to form on the muddy ground. On the dark terrible screen of the blackened sky, as lightening tore the sky, the steep heights of the Encircling Mountains appeared briefly as a ghostly ill omen. Each sound and shadow took a new dimension of threat in that new world of mayhem. The order which the Quendi praised so much existed no more. Every perception was distorted, seeming very far from what the Valar intended at the creation of those lands. 

In the confusion of those hours, the small figure of the dark-haired Elf mounted on his golden mare looked almost invisible. Their progression seemed assured in spite of everything with a pace so fast that it seemed to belie the danger of the thunder.The beholder that would have stood at the top of the mountain would have wondered at the grace of the horse and the feeling that rider and mount were one and the same. Theirs was an attitude of challenge to the angered elements, like scorn in the face of danger. But in the storm, appearances were deceiving. It was not a challenge. It was a flight from the harshness of reality and madness of life.

Indeed…

Long ago, Erestor had stopped his efforts to contain the sobs that tore at his chest and burned his throat. The tears that he had refused to release were now flowing freely the length of his narrow face, melting with the rain pouring in heavy curtains of water over the younger rider that clung onto the mane of his mount. However, the darkling youth's mind was far from the realities of his world. He did not feel the rain, did not hear the storm that raged over them. He was not aware of the pounding of hooves through the ground. The only thing he felt really was the seizing cold that made him shiver violently. His whole body seemed frozen; he could not feel his feet or his hands anymore. He could not even remember what it meant to be warm. His long ebony hair was sticking to his wet clothes, enveloping him like a dark mantle, making a strong contrast with the golden coat of the horse. His head hidden in the long wet strands of the mane, his eyes closed as though to hide from the world, Erestor was lost in a twirl of images and memories he could not escape…had no wish of escaping.

The dark-haired Elf hiccupped violently and his breathing quickened as he struggled to catch his breath. Nearing panic in his fight against choking, he lost the contact that bound him to his mare; too busy with his own battles to notice that he was pushing his mount beyond what he had ever asked from her.

She had been a gift from his father when he had been deemed mature enough to understand what it meant to take chargeof another life. She had been no more than a trembling foal then but her coat was as golden as Anor's rays; her mane as white as the winter snow. However, her eyes had been shining with intelligence and he had felt attracted to her immediately. As she grew up, it had soon becomeevident that she would never become as tall or as noble as others were. But he did not care. She was strong and faithful. The only thing that mattered was that she was his and he hers.

She was a docile one, the little mare. She loved her master and she answered courageously, not taking umbrage of the heels in her flanks that urged her to go faster and faster as she felt his need to go away and to forget. In the fingers threaded with her hairs, she could read the unbearable sorrow agitating him and precariously threatening his frail balance. Her moving ears and her occasional shivers were the only signs of her fear of the storm as she kept going forward; her steps light and dancing in spite of the slipping mud beneath her dark hooves.

Erestor was oblivious to her insecurity, lost as he was in his own living nightmares to notice. His mind was filled with images of times of happiness that would never be again. His mother…his father…the void in his feä and the cold of his body; that was all that mattered and all he wanted to forget. He wanted to close his eyes and forget; to put the greatest distance between the white city of doom and him. To go to Nevrast! Aye. There he had been happy. He would curl in his old bed that had been left in his small room beneath the roof pretending that his mother would awaken him with kisses and his father teach him to fight with knives.

Tightening his grasp on the mane of the small mare, uncaring of the strands cutting his tender flesh, he strengthenedthe hold of his legs, urging her to go faster. He did not see the fallen tree that made an obstacle to his wild race but the little horse saw it. She knew it was near impossible but she tried nonetheless, knowing that a detour would destabilise her precious burden and cause his fall. She tried and put all her fading strength in the effort. But either it was too much, or the ground was too slippery, the result was the same. Erestor felt the tightening of the muscles beneath him and the rising of the sturdy body. The next thing he knew was his lying sprawled in the mud, dazed and bewildered. His sobs had stopped at the surprise of this unexpected event. He stared at the dark sky where no star shone its comfort, his breath short and ragged. Trying to rise while using his arms to support himself, he collapsed with a cry of pain. Pressing his injured left arm to his chest, his examination identified the source of his pain: a rock cutting through his flesh.

Thunder sounded strongly around them and the youth had trouble suppressing his moan of fear as it seemed never to end. A few seconds later, lightening struck setting ablaze a tree in the distance. The youth remained dazed for long seconds staring at the fire that was soon extinguished by the rain. It was only then that he remembered all that had happened, the course of events that had led him to lying in the mud. A sob caught in his throat as the tears started anew, inundating his cheeks. When the soft nostrils of his small mare snuggled his shoulder as though seeking pardon for her fall, he rose without using his injured limb. Encircling her strong neck, he pressed his face to her shoulder as she rubbed her head against his wet clothes. Feeling her warmth, he embraced her wholly, pressing his slender body to her as he sought instinctively to be warm again. With words that stumbled quickly, he asked forgiveness again and again not really aware of the words he spoke nor really knowing whom he wanted to ask for pardon or why he felt so guilty.

She pushed him forward, taking a trembling step forward as well, and unwilling to lose the warmth of her comfort, he followed her; his arms still encircling her strong slender neck. Sliding in the mud, he stumbled slowly in the direction she had chosen till his back hit something smooth and wet. Surprised, he turned around defensively ready to flee if the need arose. But all tension left his shoulders as he realized they were facing one of the small barracks built by the guards charged with watching over the mountains. It was bare; no more than four pillars of woods supporting a roof of panels. However it was better than nothing, for he could not go farther his feet refused to bear him. Collapsing on the ground as his legs gave way beneath him, he rolled into a ball, gathering his long legs to his chest, closing his eyes as he gave in his weariness. In spite of the storm, the fear and his grief, his mind escaped towards the more peaceful lands of Elven dreamscape beneath the ever watchful gaze of his faithful mare.

He was warm. That feeling felt so alien that he could not help but notice it. Warm from the top of his dark hair to the top of his toes, he rocked in an ocean of liquid peace and comfort. Around him, he could hear whispers and feel hands touching him for brief moments. Sometimes, the voices became stronger as though trying to lull him out of this place where he felt well, where his mind was only filled with comforting emptiness. He did not want to think. He did not want to move. He was well.

But the voices continued to become stronger and stronger. Sometimes, he could distinguish a word or a sentence. Storm…Shelter…Grief…Burial… He knew that somewhere his elusive mind could connect these words and gave them a meaning beyond their simple common sense. But he did not wish to find out. He was at peace. He wished the moment would never end. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He closed his mind to them and let the benevolent darkness engulf him completely.

He was not aware of the time that passed. He did not know where he was. The darkness all around him was alien but not threatening as he could feel her presence surrounding him, rocking him. He did not see her. Her tender face, smiling eyes and comforting beauty remained absent. But he knew it was her. His mother…He wished that he could reach out to her and take her in the shelter of his arms to comfort her and tell her not to be afraid anymore. But he could not. He felt her presence escaping the nets of his mind and he cried out for her. But no word was heard in the world of silence where he had chosen to dwell and she continued fading from his mind till she was no more than a mere wandering shadow. With her, the warmth he felt left and he felt there was nothing left for him to remain in this place.

It was then that he opened his eyes.

Turgon waited. He had waited for many hours now, hours that had been interrupted by the short discussion with Glorfindel an hour ago. He had waited at the youth's side since his two faithful Captains had brought him back unconscious and shivering almost delirious. At his arrival, he had sent his daughter to prepare new rooms for his new charges. He had seen Idril a few minutes ago and she had assured him that Erestor's belongings had been brought from the small house to the palace and that none had touched Earina's belongings. The King had thanked her with a smile. It had been his order that none of the youth's mother's belongings were disturbed. It was for Erestor to put them in order. None other than a loving hand should touch them.

Turgon turned his head and examined the glorious painting adorning the walls. They were rich decorations, worthy of Miriel's hand, but he found himself impermeable to their beauties and his mind wandered soon in other landscapes. He thought on the short discussion he had shared with the golden-haired Chief of the House of the Golden Flower. He had asked him to take charge the education of the youth in his House for studying the languages, the history and training. He had long pondered his and had reached the decision that the youth would be happier if he was not considered as the King's pupil. It was difficult for the King to accept it but it was the wisest thing to do. Some had not forgotten that Earina had been disowned and would look down on her son occupying such a privileged place in the King's House. There would be time for such a thing later when Erestor would be older and better able to protect himself.

The youth's soft cry tore him from his musings. "Naneth!" A pained sigh escaped the King's lips as he gazed once more at the youth lying on the bed. Even in his sleep, he called to her. Rising from his comfortable chair, he quickly covered the few steps separating him from the bed, not the least hampered by his imposing robes, and sat close to the darkling Elf's agitated form. He stretched out his hand and softly caressed the youth's moist brow; repeating a gesture he had often done with Idril after her mother's death when he wanted to soothe her in her sleep. Instinctively, his lips formed a gentle lullaby and he sang trying to reach him. He felt the tense body relax beneath his touch and still its erratic motions.

The youth's dry lips moved as though he tried to speak but no sound passed the barrier of his throat. However, Turgon needed no word to know the turmoil the youth was in. He had seen enough pain and despair to recognize them when he came to cross their paths. He had soothed mothers and wives whose children and spouses would never come back home again. He had witnessed the tears and the slow fading that came along. The most difficult task for Erestor now was to open his eyes and face a world deprived of illusions. If the youth awakened, it would be a victory in itself, a proof that Earina's child chose to live rather than to die. The King would have liked to find the right words that would have convinced Erestor that life was well worth living. But he had found none. He knew in his heart that each pain was unique and that one needed to overcome his grief to understand the beauty of every day. The pain of an innocent soul is the worst of witness, for those who tried to help were believe intruders and the words of comfort were cast aside. The memory of Idril's tears at the hour of Elenwë's passing still haunted his dreams.

But the image was quickly chased away as his eyes met Erestor's and the King's breath caught in his throat.

The youth was staring blindly at the ceiling, ignoring his presence; emerald orbs devoid of any emotion. Turgon did not dare to move as though fearing Erestor's reaction when he would notice him. But the raven-haired Elf did not keep his frightening stillness for much longer. His head rolled slowly aside till his cheek rested on the silky fabric of the pillow; his eyes catching the King's. The latter did not dare to breathe, much less speak, as he waited for his cousin's reaction. He did not have to wait for long. Tears veiled the beautiful green eyes and Turgon gathered the youth in his arms as sobs racked his thin frame.

A week later

"I know what you want me to do"

Those were the words that Erestor had not uttered but that his eyes spoke nonetheless. Accusing and angered, the green orbs had not ceased to stare at the King's back as he followed him silently through the long corridors of the Gondolindrim palace. The rustling of the heavy robes was the only sound heard as Erestor had obstinately refused obstinately to answer Turgon's attempts at conversation.

The King sighed as he led the youth to the nursery where his sister lay. Since his awakening, Erestor had shown no wish to seek out his newborn sibling. Truth be told, Turgon had been quite disturbed by the dark-haired Elf's attitude. Few had been the words that passed his lips and fewer had been the moments when the child's eyes had lost the frightening sparkle of despair inhabiting them. But those had not been the actions causing the King's worry. Indeed, the spies once charged with the watch of the small family had always spoken of Erestor as a quiet peaceful Elfling, a child of the silence and of the night. What caused Turgon to worry was the absolute lack of will in the youth. Never did he express any wish or any need. His caretakers had to dictate him on the least of his acts, even the most simple such as eating or drinking. Never in a week had he expressed the wont to meet his sister. To Turgon, it seemed as though the youth's soul had departed his body, leaving in his stead a well-shaped machine.

"Tis not far away" assured the King without looking at Erestor, knowing that the youth did not care and that he would only meet hostile eyes. But Turgon did not care either. He could feel his desire to act and push the youth in the right direction growing with each passing day. The King was a patient being but he prided himself with knowing when action was needed. He would destroy the walls of the prison Erestor had built around himself.

Turgon stopped in front of a small door and without knocking as he knew that his presence was expected, he turned the knob and entered, motioning for Erestor to follow him. The room was plunged in half darkness but the Elleth standing watch over the baby immediately recognized him and curtsied as he approached.

"My Lord, I was expecting you" she explained as she walked towards the corner of the room, taking in her arms the small body of Earina's last child. Turning on her heel, her precious burden held comfortably in her arms, she approached the King, releasing the Elfling into his care. Turgon nodded his thanks before turning towards Erestor who stood in the frame of the door, visibly uneasy. Beckoning for the youth to approach, the King suppressed his smile at the sight of his cousin's reluctance. When Earina's oldest child faced him, Turgon ordered, "Take her in your arms"

The youth startled and **shook** his dark head, muttering, "I cannot…"

But the King's command brooked no refusal. As his eyes hardened, his voice sounded slightly threatening, "Hold her." Erestor lowered his eyes, refusing to look at the King, clearly unwilling to take hold of the infant. Turgon felt his kingly composure slip away and he frowned his gray eyes betraying his growing impatience. Taking a step closer to the youth, his gaze fixed on his cousin as though his regal will could influence him and repeated, "Hold her." He saw the discreet movement of denial, the battle of wills between rebellious refusal and weary acceptance, and finally the slight slump of shoulders indicating the Elfling's submission to his monarch's decision. Turgon moved slightly away to give the two siblings some privacy. However, he did not avert his keen gaze from the reunited family blood pounding strongly in his ears.

Erestor felt as though his heart would burst in his chest when he first beheld his sister's peaceful features. Blue eyes seeming too big for the small face held no fear or discomfort as she watched him with all the seriousness of her age. Feeling that his legs would bear him no longer, he gave into the overwhelming need to sit and let himself slide to the ground, holding his precious burden close to his heart. This was what he had feared the most. With the small body cradled in his arms, he could no longer pretend it was a maddening nightmare. It was reality. Looking into her trusting eyes, he was helplessly reminded of the oath he had taken. 'I will protect you, pen-neth. With my life if it needs to be so.'

The King's voice broke his trance-like reverie and the dark-haired youth raised his head, surprised to find Turgon's silhouette hovering over them. He had completely forgotten the King's presence. 'This little one needs a name to face the events of her life. Tis your duty to choose for her a name that will do her honour for the years till she is grown enough to choose by herself."

Erestor absorbed himself again in the contemplation of his sister. Never had he thought that this task would be his to perform. Such a choice was not to be taken lightly. A name determined much in one's life. It meant so much. He studied her features, realizing that time would turn her into a creature as beautiful as their mother had been – perhaps more.

She was a gift from the Valar, he came to realize. His life would have become dark if she was not there. She was the dawn that chased the night away, the star that would light his way.

**"**Amaurea,**"** he murmured. Raising his eyes to meet Turgon's as though trying to find strength there, he got up and spoke for all to hear, **"**With Eru as witness, I name thee Amaurea."

A few tears slid the length of his cheeks but he cared naught. His life had a new purpose. He was not alone anymore.

**TBC…**


End file.
